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“Bless you.”
He makes a face, glaring at me. “Gesù Cristo. No.Omerta—your fucking silence, asshole. We all know you went to the feds about your brother and the shit he was mixed up in. I can’t risk them coming around and poking their heads in my business. I’ve got enough on my plate trying to track shit as it is.”
My palms grow slick, and I wipe them on my pant leg, ignoring the beads of sweat cropping up on my forehead. “I went to the feds because Murphy was in too deep, and there was no way to shut down that operation without their help.”
“I don’t care about thewhy. I get it. But I still need your word.”
“And the fact that I kill and clean up for you on a semi-regular basis, that’s not enough for you?”
“No.”
Mind racing, trying to catch up with the turn this conversation has taken, I try to block out the images of the half-naked girls in dirty cages, try to stomp out the sounds of their cries and whimpers as I stalked past them looking for my brother, wondering how the fuck he’d gotten mixed up in something so evil.
Try to force away the memory of him violating their corpses, of Mel—bloodied and broken, sobbing in a heap on the concrete floor—after she’d told him no and he’d not listened.
Unhinged,they all said. That’s what happened to Murphy. His neuro-receptors got crossed somewhere with each day he spent as a low-level crime boss, and the deviance took its toll on him.
He became chaotic. Volatile. A steaming concoction of depravity, of violence and misery wrapped in an unrelenting body—I don’t think he even recognized me as the final light dimmed from his cold, green eyes.
And because he went so quietly, so quickly, all the shame and fear he’d wrought on King’s Trace and Stonemore, shifted to me. The real Devil, the only one capable of ending his reign of terror. Of inciting another.
Two years later, I’m still trying to eliminate the others. The aggressors, the colleagues, the evidence. Still trying not to wind up dead myself, for sticking my nose in.
Not for Murphy’s sake, but our mother’s. She doesn’t deserve to live with the threat of being shunned if anyone ever finds out how he hurt others. Doesn’t deserve to have more than one evil spawn.
Inhaling a long breath, I nod to Elia and hold out my hand. He grasps it after a slight hesitation, giving it two solid pumps before dropping it. “All right, Montalto. You have my word. Let’s go for a drive.”
Chapter 18
Juliet
My knee bounces, making the legs of the chair I’m seated in scrape across the floor. Caroline reaches over and puts her palm on my thigh, squeezing softly.
“It’s okay to be nervous, you know.”
I turn my head to look out the window, rolling my eyes. Of course, she’d think that—she’s never been nervous about anything her whole life. Our father prepared her for a life of scrutiny, taught her how to handle the perception of her life under the scope of the public eye.
Although, it’s possible she was nervous during the litany of abuse she endured at his hands; grooming, auctioneering, being forced to network for his political gain. Maybe the nervousness manifested itself differently with her.
A pang splinters in my chest, jagged pieces seeking my heart as the thoughts worm their way inside my brain. Almost as if they’ve been planted there by my father’s ghost, another way to make me feel guilty when it comes to my sister.
The Stonemore County Counseling Center is a tiny white brick building that sits on the city line, half in King’s Trace and half in Stonemore. Inside it’s designed to make you feel cozy and comfortable, with its earth-toned walls and its slightly dated shag carpet, the abstract oil paintings on the wall, and the bookshelves lined with mental health periodicals and journals, in case you forget what you’re doing here.
Clinics have always made me uneasy, but there’s something about this one that has nerves etching themselves into the fabric of my soul; my hands are clammy, balled into fists at my sides, and I can feel that familiar dread throb inside me in time to the beat of my heart.
As I stare at the iron analog clock on the wall behind the reception desk, watching each second tick by, that feeling only intensifies, the pounding in my ears becoming all I can hear as we continue to wait.
“Shouldn’t I have been seen by now?” My voice is choked, my throat tight, the words wrangling themselves free. “How long can it take to process an intake packet?”
Caroline turns the page of theHighlightsbooklet in her hands, shrugging. “We’re a walk-in; those always take longer. They have to see what kind of services you’re seeking, make sure you’re able to pay, find a provider who best suits your needs and personality.”
The only reason I was able to be seen as a walk-in was because Caroline and Elia are already patients, and no one says no to the amount of money he shoved toward them. I suppose I should be grateful, but it’s hard to ignore the butterflies in my stomach.
“They can’t know my personality just from a piece of paper.” Most times,I’mnot even sure I know myself.
“Obviously, but they can weed out the counselors who wouldn’t benefit you.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, a text flashing on the screen.
